


What Are You Looking For?

by imkerfuffled



Series: 25 Days of Ficlet Prompts [11]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imkerfuffled/pseuds/imkerfuffled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle of New York, Clint locks himself away in his apartment, refusing to see anyone besides his dog. He becomes obsessed with the footage from the Helicarrier attack. Natasha is concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Are You Looking For?

**Author's Note:**

> Man this took so long to write. Hope you like it!
> 
> Also, this became something of a prequel to Half an Hour Before Sunrise, but you don't have to read that first.

_“Hey Clint, you want to head out, grab a few drinks later? I’ve got a free afternoon. Bye.”_

_“Hey Clint, I’m free again tonight. Want to grab a beer? Call me back.”_

_“Clint, I know your landlord didn’t disconnect your phone again. Answer me.”_

_“Clint, you’ve got to get out. You can’t hole yourself up in there forever.”_

_“Clint… Please. Don’t do this to yourself. What’s done is done, Clint. It’s in the past. Please… Talk to me. Do you think this is what Coulson would have wanted?”_

_“Listen up, Barton. You haven’t left your apartment in three weeks. I know your food is going to run out soon. You may be able to survive on three crackers a day, but your dog can’t. If you don’t want to see me, at least get out of the house.”_

_“Kate says you’re ignoring her too. At least talk to someone.”_

_“I know you haven’t been kidnapped. I checked. Answer your phone, Clint.”_

_“Answer your damn phone.”_

Natasha stood at the apartment door, holding her cell phone up to her ear as the dial tone rang. 

Click. It went to voicemail. 

_“Um, this is Clint Barton,”_ the recording said, _“I’m probably out, or sleeping, or something. Or I’m picking a fight with my landlord. Anyway, leave a message.”_ Beeeeep. 

“Alright, Clint,” she said. Her voice was gentle, but left no room for argument. “I’m sure the director’s already threatened you with a dozen different shrinks, but he’s not why I’m here. Now, up until today I’ve respected your crappy decision to cut yourself off from everyone, but this is my final warning; if you don’t pick up your phone right now I will break down your door, Clint Barton. Don’t think I won’t d—” 

The door swung open. Clint stood, slouching, in the doorway, wearing boxers, a grease-stained t-shirt, and a tattered purple robe. One hand snaked behind his head to scratch sheepishly at his disheveled hair, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved for days. Tired circles surrounded both his eyes. Behind him, the apartment was dark, and empty food wrappers littered its surface, lit by the television’s blue glow. The apartment smelled like dog and unwashed human. 

He didn’t say a word. 

“May I come in?” Natasha asked softly. 

Clint didn’t respond, but he stepped back and held the door open for her. 

She walked inside, careful not to step on a crumpled Doritos bag in the entrance, and instead nearly tripped over Clint’s dog, a large, brown creature of questionable breed. Lucky rubbed up against her hand, and she scratched his ears out of habit. 

“Clint,” she whispered, taking in the rest of the room, “This isn’t healthy.” 

Once again, Clint said nothing. He closed the door behind Natasha in defeated silence. 

Natasha’s eyes were drawn naturally to the brightest light source in the room: the television. Instead of Dog Cops or another mindless show like she’d expected, the screen was paused on the instantly recognizable main bridge of the Helicarrier. Smoke filled the air, and agents scurried every which way for cover. Agent Hill could be seen crouching on a platform while firing at something off-screen. 

“Is that…” Natasha didn’t finish. She had seen that footage many times. If she followed Agent Hill’s line of fire, she would see the blur of an arrow coming from her target. 

Clint nodded. 

“Where did you get it?” Left unsaid was the, “How _did you get it, if you’ve been barred from all SHIELD facilities until you submit to a psych eval?”_

“Stark,” Clint said, his voice hoarse with disuse, “Part of his hacking job gave him access to the Helicarrier’s security feeds, so he caught the whole battle.” 

Natasha nodded, searching his tone for some sign of… something. Anything. Instead, he just sounded dead. 

They stood there in silence, both eyeing each other carefully. A mere four feet stood between them, but it felt, somehow, like a much greater distance. 

On the coffee table at her hip, Natasha spotted a messy pile of DVDs, each with the Stark Industries insignia stamped on the edges, and each with a sharpie label written in Stark’s distinctive handwriting. She held one up, letting her eyes do the questioning. 

“That’s the rest of ‘em, yeah,” Clint answered, “That one in your hand’s the one from the sick bay.” 

Her eyebrows shot up, asking more in a gesture than any words could. _How can you tell that from just a glance, Clint? How many hours have you spent watching these, Clint? Just how bad off are you, Clint?_

He shrugged, part defensive, part ashamed, part plain uncomfortable. He understood every possible meaning of Natasha’s eyebrow raise, even the secondary ones hidden underneath the questions. _I’m worried for you, Clint._

Lucky whined in agreement. 

Clint looked so pitiful hovering near the door, shoulders hunched over, poised as if ready to bolt. Natasha softened her expression. 

“Every time...” she trailed off, “You’re doing it again, Clint.” 

“Doing what?” Clint asked, stubborn as ever. 

“Cutting yourself off from everyone who cares about you,” she said, “You’ve become obsessed over what happened, and it’s killing you, Clint.” 

“I prefer the term ‘driven,’” he said, but his characteristic smirk was nowhere to be seen. That scared Natasha almost as much as his earlier silence. 

“‘Driven’ implies you’re actually doing something. Not drifting aimlessly,” she said, “Let me help you.” 

“I don’t need help.” 

Her eyes narrowed. 

“I don’t _want_ help,” he corrected, “I don’t _deserve_ help.” 

They narrowed further. 

“Tasha, I—” he choked off, “You saw what I did under Loki’s control. That sort of thing can’t be forgiven.” 

“I saw a man being forced against his will to perform acts he never consented to,” she said, “And for that, anything can be forgiven.” 

Clint was shaking his head. “I killed —” 

_“Loki_ killed.” 

“I shot down the—” 

_“Loki_ shot down the Helicarrier.” 

“But he used _me_ to do it!” Clint shouted, “He used _my_ skills, _my_ hands, _my_ bow. _Me._ I did it!” 

Natasha stared impassively for a few seconds before listing off on her fingers, “Survivor’s guilt, self-blame, complete withdrawal, severe depression…” 

“Stop it!” he shouted. She knew he wasn’t angry at her; he was angry at himself, but anything was better than the uncaring numbness he’d displayed when she first arrived. 

“Seventy-three people are dead because of me!” Clint cried, “Seventy-three innocent people, Nat. And that’s not even counting the hundreds of people who died in the Chitauri attack.” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

“But that _doesn’t matter!_ They’re still dead because of things that _I_ did, and the worst part is I can’t even tell if I did anything to stop it. If I could’ve done something to save him—” 

There it was. ‘Him.’ Coulson. Clint blamed himself for their old SO’s death. Natasha’s chest tightened involuntarily, and all expression disappeared from her face before she could stop herself. Clint’s face crumpled, thinking, no doubt that he’d lost his last, slim hope for redemption if even Natasha blamed him for Coulson’s death. 

She didn’t. Of course she didn’t, and she never could. But god did it hurt. 

Out of everything, Natasha knew Coulson dying had hit Clint the hardest. She would never forget the look on his face when she finally told him, after the battle when Clint was running on little more than the dregs of adrenaline. It made her feel like the worst kind of villain to see him so defeated, even though she’d insisted she be the one to tell him. 

Neither Clint nor Natasha were known for their healthy handling of grief—in fact, they both made SHIELD’s “Most likely to refuse psychiatric help” list—but they had polar opposite coping methods. While Clint isolated himself from everyone (made worse, ironically, if SHIELD gave him mandatory paid leave for his mental health, like now), Natasha threw herself into her work with renewed vigor and brutality, often pushing herself well past her breaking point. Before, they always had Coulson to reign them in, but now… 

Now they only had each other. 

Mere moments after she let her mask slip on, Natasha composed herself, molding her face into an expression of concerned sadness despite every fiber of her being screaming to retreat back into her shell. Instead, she set down the DVD, held her arms out ever-so-slightly, and beckoned for Clint to come closer. 

He blinked, hesitated a moment, and complied. 

Natasha led him by the wrist to the threadbare couch and pulled him onto the cushions with her. She drew his head into the crook of her neck, stroking his hair into something more manageable. 

Clint melted into her touch, and they laid there in silence for a long time, with Clint curled up against her side. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes while his entire body shook uncontrollably, and Natasha murmured softly into the top of his head. On his other side, Lucky nuzzled his leg from the floor. 

“God,” Clint muttered after a while, sniffling, “Look at me, Tasha, I’m a fucking assassin. I kill people _for a living._ I have no right to—” 

“No, shhhh,” whispered Natasha, “Don’t say that. Of course you’re allowed to be affected, but don’t ever feel guilty about it. Coulson’s death is not on you, and if he could he’d tell you the same. You know that, Clint.” 

He nodded, but his expression told a different story. 

“I mean it. You are not responsible for anything that happened that day, least of all Coulson.” 

“Yeah,” he said after a pause, “It’s just… There’s a difference between knowing something and actually _knowing_ something, you know?” 

“I know.” Natasha pulled him even closer to her and placed her chin on top of his head, hiding her own stinging eyes. “I know.” 

When she opened her eyes it was to face the accusing glow of the TV again. This time she couldn’t stop her gaze from travelling down the path of Maria Hill’s gun to land on Clint’s blurry arrow. It stared back at her, mocking her and her trust in Clint. _“You are wrong,”_ it said silently, _“Clint did this. It was Loki’s fault, but the blood is on Clint’s hands.”_

She grit her teeth. 

“Why did you want these videos anyway?” she asked. 

Clint shrugged. “I don’t know. Well, I do, but… I don’t know.” 

Natasha understood what he meant, in a way. She was no stranger to the need to relive all the sordid details of past crimes. It went beyond mere morbid curiosity and became a masochistic obsession. 

“Actually,” Clint said, “I was looking for something.” 

“What was it?” 

He didn’t answer for almost a full minute, and Natasha thought for a moment that he forgot the question, but finally he opened his mouth. “You know how Bruce says that sometimes he can sort of… control the Hulk, just a tiny bit?” he said slowly. 

Natasha nodded. 

“I just,” he broke off, “I needed to know if I was still in there, you know? If I was still fighting it.” 

“And did you find out?” Natasha whispered, holding him tighter. 

“I can’t tell,” Clint said, “I’m not even sure what I’d rather it be: that I tried and failed or I didn’t try at all.” 

With a small noise of confusion, Natasha shifted so she could see his face. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean I don’t know which would be worse: having the chance to overcome Loki’s mind control and knowing someone stronger than me could’ve done it, or not having that chance at all and being completely helpless. You know what I mean?” 

“Yeah,” she said softly. She knew all too well what he meant. “Do you want to know what I think?” 

He didn’t respond, so she continued. “I think you’re the strongest, most resilient person I’ve ever known, and I think you were fighting him every second of the way —hush, let me finish,” she said, pressing a finger to his lips when he tried to interrupt, “You. Are. Only. Human. Loki is a god. He’s more powerful than anyone on this planet, and the fact that you were able to resist him at all is frankly amazing.” 

“But did I?” 

Again, Natasha narrowed her eyes at Clint. Somehow, it was even more effective with the close vicinity. “Clint Barton,” she said, “You are the greatest sharpshooter in the world, correct?” 

He nodded. 

“Your aim is impeccable, even with a gun.” 

He nodded again. 

“You can hit a moving target from a mile away with a crosswind.” 

He nodded again. 

“And yet,” Natasha said, “When Loki told you to shoot Director Fury from a distance of mere feet, you hit him in the chest where you knew he wore a bulletproof vest. And later in the garage, you missed Agent Hill altogether.” 

Clint opened his mouth to argue, but Natasha cut him off again. “You _did_ fight him, Clint,” she said gently, “And it _did_ make a difference.” 

“But I almost killed you, Nat,” he choked up, “I don’t even want to think about what could’ve happened if you hadn’t… What did you call it?” 

“Cognitive recalibration,” she smiled, matching his watery grin. 

“It’s okay, Clint,” Natasha said, “You didn’t kill me, and Coulson didn’t die because of you, and you did everything you possibly could to stop Loki. And you are going to be okay.”


End file.
